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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

Sylvia Plath

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Sylvia Plath
Age: 30 †
Born: 1932
Born: October 27
Died: 1963
Died: February 11
Autobiographer
Diarist
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Victoria Lucas
Sylvia Plath Hughes
Perhaps
Crawl
Beauty
Heartbreak
Stories
Beaten
Home
Defeated
Back
Feminism
Long
Classic
Make
Chaos
Sorrow

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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.
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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
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I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
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So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.
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If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
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I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.
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I am what I feel and think and do.
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse.
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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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